


Pike Twirling For Dummies

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character study BUT NOT REALLY, F/M, Masturbation, not SUPER ANGST or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He accepted the fact that he'd only have his hands for company a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pike Twirling For Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a story about Alistair jacking off at various points in his life. AMAZING. I've never written anything for Dragon Age before and actually it's been a while since I've publicly posted anything I've written at all. I hope this isn't too terrible? This first part isn't too long and there's more to come (l o l), with eventual pairing stuff. Enjoy him going solo for now though I guess???
> 
> This is also posted on my tumblr @ channingpotayto

Chantry robes leave much to the imagination and he has had a lot of time to imagine. Soft skin unmarred by scars, round breasts topped with rosy nipples, an ass that…

Alistair rolls over and holds in a groan. Maybe if he tries hard enough he can smother himself with his pillow. He won’t have to worry about his little problem at least. A problem that brushes just so against the mattress offering little pinpricks of pleasure.

With a quiet hiss, he turns onto his side. He stares hard at the wall, but it doesn’t offer any more advice than usual.

There’s always the Chantry’s solution: think about how disappointed the Maker would be. Except that has never worked for him and he doubts it ever will. Does the Maker actually care about things like this? He must have better things to do than damn the souls of errant teenagers. Or whatever happens. None of the Sisters were ever too clear on it.

He presses a palm against himself and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping. As long as he’s quick and quiet everything will be fine. Right? He peers over his shoulder. It’s too dark to see much of anything, but everything seems still enough. He takes a deep breath before turning his attention back to the incessant hardness.

Before he loses his nerve, Alistair slips a hand into his pants and presses fingertips against his length. The touch is gentle, almost tentative, but it’s enough to have him exhaling sharply. He wraps his fingers around his shaft, pushing his thumb firmly against the tip. A soft gasp escapes from his mouth before he can stifle it and he bites his knuckle.

He gathers the fluid already there and slides his hand down, squeezing the base. The act is frowned upon, but he has done it enough to figure out what he likes. Sometimes he wonders if he should feel guilty about it. The Chantry certainly wants him to. 

Long, slow stroke up, squeeze, back down, squeeze, and repeat as needed. Sometimes, when he is sure he’s alone, he moves his hips and bucks into his hand instead. In those instances, he pretends it’s not his hand.

Instead it’s the Sister with the pretty brown hair and bright eyes. Or the merchant who smiled at him like he was worth something. Later that day he realized she only wanted his coin, but it’s still a nice memory. Either way, he can never pretend for long. The callouses on his hands are too rough. He’ll get distracted by his own moans and be too aware that he’s the only one making sounds. Whatever it is.

For now, he focuses on breathing. In and out. Up and down. Squeeze. Alistair whimpers, he can feel that familiar tightness in his abdomen building up. He moves his hand faster and bites down hard on his knuckle. When he comes, he tries to catch it all with his hand. Feeling boneless he exhales slowly and reaches over the edge of his bed.

He cleans himself up with a sock and makes a mental note to throw it away in the morning. He’ll have to ask for a new pair, but it’s better than sending it to the wash. The last initiate who did that was scrubbing floors for weeks.

Settling back under the blankets he closes his eyes. At the moment he feels satisfied. He tries not to think about his future as a miserable templar with only his hands for company.


End file.
